


Property of Sam Winchester

by laurificus (Laura)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura/pseuds/laurificus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's got a mark on his arm, but Dean was Sam's first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Property of Sam Winchester

In Mississippi, there’s a nest of harpies. They dispatch them in under an hour: a good clean hunt: the kind Sam ran away to Stanford to avoid, and would give just about anything to call routine now. They come out with nothing more than bruises, a three inch gash oozing blood on Dean’s left arm.

Sam pulls him in as they stand by the car, looks at the cut critically, and goes for the first aid kit. He doesn’t need to do it for him — by their standards, this is nothing. But he wants to. Dean is warm where Sam touches him, even though there’s frost crunching on the grass beneath their feet, and Sam’s almost forgotten what this feels like. 

“We were totally badass,” Dean says, while Sam works, and a grin cuts a path through the dirt and ash on his face.

“I was,” sam says. “You were mediocre. You can tell that from how you’re bleeding and I’m not.”

Dean thumps him on the shoulder with his other hand. “Remember that time I saved your ass from a harpy and I didn’t regret it? Yeah, me neither.”

Sam smiles at him, then, and it still feels good to do that. “That was the least mediocre thing you did. Don’t play it down.” He rubs his thumb around the gauze, and then up, over the mark. Dean tenses under his hands, but he doesn’t pull away. Sam doesn’t let go, either. There are things he wants, now — again. He wonders if they’re still his to have.

***

Dean doesn’t sleep well these days. Not that either of them have been very good at it for years, but for a while, Dean was better at it in the bunker. For the first few weeks after he was cured, he wouldn’t come near the library, even though he knew Sam was there, as if Sam might want him in another room — as if it didn’t make Sam crazy whenever Dean wasn’t in touching distance.

Now, at least, he sits in the library, a glass of whiskey in his hand, a head full of fuck knows what. Sam researches curses and Cain and gets nowhere, and he waits. He learned to be patient somewhere between Hell and here, and Dean always talks eventually.

Though when he does, Sam wishes he hadn’t. It starts with the witches, of course. Telling him about the future — not just darkness waiting for him, but darkness he’ll become. Worse than a demon; worse than he was in Hell. And Dean smiled, right before Sam took them out, and said, “Better that than you, right?” But now he’s pacing, tension in every line of his body, and this beaten look on his face Sam can’t stand.

“You can’t fix this,” he says, finally. “I mean, Cas doesn’t know how. And it’s Lucifer. You know the answer’s not in a book.”

He crosses the room to Sam, looking weirdly vulnerable in his bare feet. Sam thinks of reaching for him, tugging him in and maybe pushing him down on the table, getting that haunted look out of his eyes the best way he’s ever known.

Then Dean opens his mouth again. “I’m not gonna ask you to kill me, no matter what happens. I know more than anyone that’s not fair. But you don’t have to save me, okay? You want to and that’s — it’s enough for me.”

Sam punches him. His hand hurts for days after, and Dean’s probably lucky his jaw didn’t break. Sam’s mostly not sorry at all.

***

In Florida, while dean’s face is still healing, Sam ditches the hoodies he’s been living in for the past two months, goes to the library in just a t-shirt and remembers what it’s like not to be freezing. He comes back, and Dean’s in about five layers of clothing, still shaking. His mouth’s tight, and Sam’s honestly not sure if it’s pain or worry. He’s not running a fever when Sam touches him; if anything, his skin is colder than it should be.

“You know it is,” Dean says, answering a question Sam hasn’t asked. “Guess it hasn’t been fed in a while.”

Dean’s been picking the hunts, and Sam’s been letting him. A haunting at a retirement home; a poltergeist in an apartment complex; some more honest-to-god fairies in New Orleans. Orchestrating their own redemption tour, and it’s good. What Dean wants. Only, Sam’s not really sorry for what he did to get back — or not as sorry as he should be — and he doesn’t blame Dean for what _he_ did.

“Good news is, I think we’ve got a black dog. Might help. After that, it’s yoga for you.” He’s really thinking more werwolves and shapeshifters, anything that deserves to be killed bloody.

In the end, Dean puts six bullets in the dog, his hand steady for the first time all day. He’s quiet on the way back to the motel, the faintest shivering still detectable when Sam reaches for him.

“You should leave,” he says, when they’re in the room. It’s the most unlikely thing that’s ever come out of Dean’s mouth, and still not all that surprising. 

Sam drops his bag on the floor, kicks off his shoes, one at a time, deliberate and slow. It’s supposed to buy him time to think of something soothing to say, but in the end, he says, “I can punch harder. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of it.”

It makes Dean laugh, at least, even if not for long. “I nearly killed you,” he says. “Before. In the bunker.” He sits on the edge of his bed, curls his hands in the shitty motel blankets.

“Well, sure. If you want to be negative about it. I prefer to see the positive — that you were kinda shitty even as a demon and didn’t do it right.”

“Sam —“

Sam shakes his head. “I’m not leaving.”

Dean stands up, and this time, he jams his hands in his pockets,as if Sam doesn’t know they’re shaking — this time because he’s scared. “All the times you tried to — said you wanted to. Now I’m saying you can. NO harm, no foul. Free pass. Find a girl, buy a dog —“

“Seriously. Never tired of punching.” Sam gets into his space, looms over him and hasn’t been so grateful for his height since he was 18 and smug as all fuck about it. “Do you know how mad at you I’d have to get before I left? I mean, I’m seriously asking, because I’ve been pretty fucking mad at you more than once in the past couple years, and I never did. I stayed through your Benny is a better brother speech, and your fake text bullshit, and your epic Gadriel fuck up..”

“You wanna do this now?” Dean says, low and threatening, anger or hurt making him dangerous. Sam keeps moving forward, doesn’t care. Dean’s knees hit the back of the bed, and Sam shoves him onto it.

“Yes,” he says. “But not how you think, Dean.” He keeps his hands on Dean’s shoulders, thumbs on his collarbones. “I didn’t leave then, for the same reason I don’t regret what I did to get you back. For the same reason I’m not leaving now. And for the same reason I’m going to fucking save you, whether you want me to or not.” Dean, the bastard, actually looks up at him, this uncertain look on his face Sam’s hugely insulted by. “You’re my brother, you jackass. If you think I’m letting you go, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“I might be,” Dean says. He wraps his fingers around Sam’s wrist, in a grip so hard it’s painful. “I don’t know how to stop this.”

Sam takes a breath. It’s been years. Before purgatory and Amelia and a hundred ways they found to hurt each other between then and now. But he wants the things that used to be his. “Cain had some weird thing going on with bees, right?”

Dean nods. “I’m not getting a hive in the bunker.”

Sam grins. “I don’t really think it would be your thing. Not all that hopeful about yoga, either.” He slides his fingers under Dean’s shirt, leans in. “There’s pretty much one option where you’re concerned.”

Dean’s free hand comes up between them, but not to push away. he rests it on Sam’s chest, fingers curling in his t-shirt. “Sam,” he says. “I’d never — this is a fucked up reason for this.”

Sam kisses him, a quick, barely there thing that’s still all electricity and heat. It’s the best thing he’s known in years. “I remember you were terrible at this, so having sex with you to keep you sane is going to be a pretty big sacrifice for me. But I’m a good brother, so I’m willing to do it.”

And that makes Dean laugh again, hopeful and warm. “Nobody thinks this is good brotherly behaviour, Sam,” and Sam says, “I remember you used to talk a lot less.” And Dean rolls his eyes and pulls Sam in.

For a while it’s just kissing, the frantic kind, a lot of teeth and not much finesse. One of them — Sam doesn’t know which — finally has sense enough to start fumbling with belt buckles and zippers, but even that is messy at first: Dean’s angle wrong as he tries to get his hand around Sam’s dick. Urgency has made even him awkward at this, and Sam wants too much, wants to push and push, take everything of Dean that’s been out of reach. They’ve been stupid — so fucking stupid — pretending they didn’t want this, as if _this_ has ever been the problem. Sam’s always understood Dean here: all the ways he needs and wants Sam, all the ways he’s terrified by it. And here is the one place Sam’s _not_ terrified, where how much he needs and wants Dean seems inevitable, the one great card he was dealt in an incredibly shitty hand.

“You wanna?” Sam asks. “You can.” It’s about all the words he’s got, rendered useless by Dean’s swollen lips, the hard heat of him against his palm.

For a second, Dean just watches him, disbelief so naked on his face that Sam’s momentarily distracted from how turned on he is. “You can,” he says again. But Dean shakes his head. He swallows, loud enough that Sam hears it over the sound of his own pounding heartbeat and ragged breathing.

“I want — I think I need —“ He looks at his arm, then back at Sam. Sam thinks he’s actually blushing, but he’s already yanking his jeans down, kicking them and his boxers off.

Sam nearly falls over in his hurry to get his own off, because he wants what Dean’s offering more than he’s wanted anything in such a long time. “Gonna make you feel so good, Dean,” he says, turning back in to suck bruises into Dean’s collarbone. When he looks up, Dean’s actually laughing again, that ashamed look from before disappearing with it.

“I forget you’re a possessive son of a bitch,” he says, and Sam shrugs. No point in arguing.

He kisses him again, and says, “You got what we need?” Dean rolls his eyes, like he’s actually offended, and Sam lets him go long enough for him to rummage around in his bag. It’s distraction more than anything else — Sam’s making his own plans. 

“Get on the bed,” he says, when Dean’s back. Then he holds up the tie he wore this morning, and nods when Dean raises his eyebrows.

When he looks like he’s going to start talking, Sam reaches down, runs his thumb over one of Dean’s nipples and grins when he’s totally derailed. “We both know you like it,” he says. “No touching. No trying to get out of it. You’re going to lie there and let me fuck you stupid. Stupider. Whatever.”

“I normally have sex with people who are less insulting,” Dean says, but he’s settling on the bed, and he doesn’t resist when Sam grabs his wrists and secures them to the headboard.

“Probably, but I’m better.” It’s half-hearted, though, because Sam’s looking at Dean spread out and waiting — all the hard lines of him, more obviously muscled and scarred than Sam remembers. His cock is jutting up towards his belly, and for a moment, Sam is paralysed by how much he needs to touch him.

“Cocky little bastard,“ Dean says, like he hasn’t noticed Sam’s having some sort of lust inspired nervous breakdown, and that’s exactly right, exactly what Sam needed him to say. 

Sam’s already moving before he’s finished, and he _is_ better, because he knows Dean. Even now, so long after they last did this, he knows. Tonight’s about getting him off, quick and hard, no playing around or giving him time to think. Sam licks a stripe up his dick — just once, all the warning he’s going to give. Then he wraps his lips around it, and he’s out of practice, but it’s not like he’s ever forgotten this — the taste and smell of him, the exact shape and feel of Dean’s cock in his mouth.

Beneath his hands, Dean’s trembling, muscles jumping. When Sam looks up his body, he’s biting his lip, his hands clenched around the headboard. And that’s good — better than. Dean laid out like this, starting to come apart, letting Sam see it. But Sam wants him undone completely, wants to be the one to make it happen. He pulls off long enough to swirl his tongue around the tip, tiny movements he knows make Dean crazy. , And then he takes him in again, scrapes his teeth along the underside, just a bit, just how Dean likes, and he drags his nails along Dean’s stomach, until Dean’s fucking his mouth, hard and out of control, and Sam swallows everything down — messy and thick and gross, and nothing he’s ever going to admit to being happy to have again.

He crawls up the bed when he can breathe again, hands mapping Dean as he goes, and he lets Dean kiss the taste of himself out of Sam’s mouth. dean’s not exactly gentle about it, like he’s using his mouth to claim Sam in all the ways his hands can’t.

“And _I’m_ the possessive one here,” Sam says, pulling back. He braces his elbows on either side of Dean’s head, and looks down at him. His own cock is painfully hard, leaking onto Dean’s bare skin. Dean licks his lips, even more obscene than he intends when they’re already swollen and bitten.

“I feel like if I’d done yoga, I’d be more…centred. This probably isn’t going to work for me at all. But you shouldn’t feel bad. You tried. That’s important to me.”

“Shut up,” Sam says, and he tells himself no fondness crept into his voice. “I’ll fucking centre your ass,” and Dean’s laughing as Sam kisses him, still laughing as Sam gets him where he wants him — legs over Sam’s shoulders, hardly any room between them. 

Sam gets a hand around his dick, soft now, but showing signs of interest as he works his fingers in and out of Dean. It’s been a while, and Dean’s so tight that Sam’s breath catches.

“Gonna be so good, Dean. So fucking good.” And what he means is he’s gonna make Dean his again, take him back from every shitty thing they let get in the way before. Dean’s got a mark, but Sam can beat it, because he was Sam’s first, and Sam doesn’t share.

“Talk talk talk,” Dean says, breathless and shaky, and so predictable. Sam is torn between kissing him and hitting him, but he’s got better things to do with his hands right now, so he kisses him, over and over, until Dean is writhing on his fingers, and telling him to get the fuck on with it. And Sam does — slides in, and curls his fingers over Dean’s shoulders as he tenses and then relaxes.

And Sam moves, then, like they did this yesterday. Rocking up into Dean, finding his sweet spot almost immediately, and feeling him hot and tight and unravelling all around him.

Dean says, “Let me. I wanna —“ And he tugs at the tie around his wrists, but Sam just grins at him, and moves faster.

“Told you you liked it,” he said, and Dean clenches around him and pushes down, the best revenge Sam can imagine. Sam’s so turned on he’s laughing and forgetting how to breathe and losing his goddamn mind all at once, and all he can do is keep moving, in this perfect rhythm, while he says Dean’s name over and over and over.

He comes harder than he has in years, clutching at Dean and biting so hard into his shoulder he might have drawn blood. Dean doesn’t seem to mind. He says Sam’s name, in that way Sam loves, like it’s the only word he needs, and then he comes, too, though less dramatically. 

Sam has the presence of mind to pull out, but that’s about all he’s good for, and honestly, he thinks he’s excelled himself. Dean glares at him, though, until Sam unties him. After that, he gives up and collapses on top of Dean. Dean sighs, and Sam waits for the bitching to start.

But Dean tangles a hand in his hair, and says, “Maybe you can stay. With practice you might not be too bad.”

Sam bites him again, his neck this time, so that Dean squirms beneath him. “Jesus, you’re a freak,” Dean says, and Sam smiles, runs his tongue over the bite. No reason, except he wants to, and he can.

“The one with the biblical curse should probably shut the fuck up,” he says, but he curls his hand over the mark on Dean’s arm, and kisses him. He doesn’t stop until even Dean hears what he’s promising.


End file.
